


Flaws

by StarshipDancer



Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: Voldemort reflects on something Bellatrix once said to him and makes a decision about himself, all while snuggled up to Quirrell.
Relationships: Quirinus Quirrell/Tom Riddle, Quirinus Quirrell/Voldemort
Comments: 7
Kudos: 172





	Flaws

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Flaws by Bastille, but it's not necessary to listen to it. Any more fics inspired by Bastille songs, and I might just have to create a series about it....

_There’s a hole in my soul. I can’t fill it, I can’t fill it._

_There’s a hole in my soul. Can you fill it, can you fill it?_

“ _There are pieces of you missing!_ ”

Voldemort shot awake, his heart racing. His brow furrowed immediately, confused and angry at his past for haunting him yet again. “What the fuck?!”

_What the fuck_ roughly translated to: _why the fuck am I thinking of Bellatrix now_?

Voldemort hadn’t thought of Bella in… well, a few months because that had been how much time had passed since he’d last seen her. What happened to Bella? Was she even still alive?

What would she say if she saw the ex-Dark Lord wearing civilian pajamas like some Muggle and hiding his existence from the Wizarding World? She’d probably say those words to him again, try to incite him into making evil plans about taking over the world or whatever.

“ _There are pieces of you missing!_ ”

But… that wasn’t right… was it?

With a sigh, Voldemort turned to look at the empty spot in his bed where his partner should be. There was a Quirrell-sized hole in the bed, nothing but an impression that Voldemort felt deep within his soul. There was a Quirrell-sized hole there, too.

There probably _had been_ a Quirrell-sized hole in his soul for a long time. It just took him too damn long to realize it, and he’d almost lost everything truly important to him. But he’d come _home_ , and that hole had been filled. Didn’t mean that he still didn’t wake up thinking about the hardened look of betrayal Quirrell had worn when he’d been dragged away to Azkaban. That was the first time that Voldemort had noticed the Quirrell-sized hole in his soul….

But that wasn’t important anymore. What _was_ important was the current Quirrell-sized hole in his bed. Voldemort pushed back the covers and swept his legs out of bed, his feet immediately finding a home in the slippers Quirrell had given him last month to combat the increasingly cold nights.

Voldemort wiggled his toes in the slippers, thinking to himself. Did he really want to bother Quirrell about something like this?

“ _There are pieces of you missing!_ ”

Voldemort stood up and made his way toward the door. On his way there, he noticed his robe was missing, so he grabbed Quirrell’s and wrapped it around himself. Quirrell’s was a little smaller, but it smelled like old books and flowers and home. Mostly, it smelled like home.

Voldemort could do without the old book smell, but then it wouldn’t be Quirrell, would it?

He followed the ghost of light in the hallway all the way to the living room, where he found Quirrell sitting on the loveseat with a book in one hand and a probably cold cup of tea in the other. Wordlessly, Voldemort walked over to the couch and laid down, his head landing comfortably in Quirrell’s lap. He burrowed his face in Quirrell’s stomach and just breathed.

Quirrell smelled like Voldemort. Voldemort smelled like cleaning supplies. The old book smell was suddenly much more pleasant.

Faintly, Voldemort heard the noise of Quirrell setting down his mug. Then the rustle of a page turning. Then nothing for several minutes, just Quirrell’s even breathing.

Another page-turn. After a moment, Quirrell shifted, and his free hand slid into Voldemort’s hair; Voldemort was glad he washed the gel out of his hair earlier. It made the sensation of Quirrell’s nails scratching his scalp all the more enjoyable when his hair was soft and clean.

“Is everything okay?” Quirrell asked gently.

Voldemort made a noise that was neither affirmative nor dissenting. It sounded more like, “ _Ngk_.”

“Hm.” Quirrell closed his book and set it off to the side. “Do you want to talk about it?”

_Yes. No. Yes, but not to Quirrell_. Voldemort’s brain just couldn’t decide. He settled for a shrug.

“Was it another nightmare?”

Voldemort didn’t know the answer to that. It wasn’t really a nightmare in the usual sense. Just… thoughts. Memories that he’d rather not think about because he wasn’t that person anymore.

But had he really changed that much? It had only been a few months since his defeat at the hands of the Potter boy ( _again_ ). Could Voldemort really say that all of his evil tendencies had just… evaporated?

Quirrell’s hand kept combing back his hair. Voldemort could feel the tension in his shoulders giving way to relaxation, and he took a deep, satisfied breath.

“You smell like bleach,” he told Quirrell. “Bleach and laundry detergent.”

Quirrell hummed again, putting on that innocent façade that Voldemort had never believed for even a second. “Perhaps you should stop cleaning in your bathrobe. Then I won’t smell like bleach.”

“ _Perhaps_ you should stop stealing my bathrobe. You won’t smell like bleach then, either.”

“But yours has longer sleeves than mine.”

“Because I have longer arms than you, Squirrel.”

“If you aren’t using it, then I don’t see what the big deal is.” Quirrell shrugged a bit, his voice still soft and his hand still comforting.

“What if I need to get out of bed for something? Like to find out where my bookwork ran off to with my bathrobe?” Voldemort turned his face upward then, just to see the sly grin on Quirrell’s face.

“That’s what my robe is there for, isn’t it?”

Voldemort rolled over onto his back so he could look up at Quirrell’s smiling face, and he was overwhelmed by how much he loved Quirrell. How at home he was. Sure, he wasn’t ruling the world. He didn’t have his Death Eaters or snakes or any of that other shit he’d wanted.

What Voldemort did have were flowers. And Jane Austin novels. And a man who couldn’t get his clothes in the hamper to save his live but who loved Voldemort unconditionally, despite all of his flaws. Despite everything Voldemort had put him through.

Voldemort was being stupid about all of this. Pieces of him missing? He was all _right here_.

“Are you feeling better?” Quirrell asked kindly, his smile indicating that he already knew the answer.

Voldemort nodded. “Yeah. I just… remembered some things that… well, it’s not important now.”

“Shall we go to bed then?”

“Are you done reading?”

Quirrell paused, considering. “I could stop for the night.”

“It’s fine.” Voldemort rolled over again, face in Quirrell’s abdomen where Voldemort could breathe in that bleach and detergent smell once more. “I’m comfortable right here.”

“I could read to you?” Quirrell suggested, already reaching for his book again. “I could start from the beginning.”

“Read from where you’re at; I’ll probably fall asleep, anyways.” Just like Voldemort had done every other time Quirrell had ever read aloud to him. Starting out, it had been a good method of helping improve Quirrell’s nervous stutter. The two of them had enjoyed the quality time so much that it became a natural thing they did together when Quirrell wanted to read and Voldemort wanted to be with Quirrell.

Quirrell reopened his book, flipping through pages to find his spot again. Usually, he used a bookmark to keep his place; had he been that worried about Voldemort? A sudden warmth spread through Voldemort, and he couldn’t stop himself from placing a firm kiss to Quirrell’s stomach.

The hand reappeared in his hair, absently stroking as Quirrell’s pleasant voice filled the quiet room. Voldemort focused less on the words and more on the way Quirrell said them—the shift in his voice when different characters spoke, the smile Voldemort could hear when he read a particularly romantic line of prose. He fell back asleep almost embarrassingly fast, lulled there by Quirrell’s soft reading and the reassuring knowledge that Bellatrix’s words wouldn’t haunt him anymore.

Voldemort was whole.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a fan of the ending, but if I didn't post it now, then I never would. Hope you enjoyed! <3
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr and twitter @neonganymede


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